


double negative +

by lucidly



Category: Collar x Malice (Visual Novel)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And trouble follows him, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Original Character(s), Romance, Saeki gets away, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucidly/pseuds/lucidly
Summary: Tsuki Saito lives comfortably in San Francisco as a museum curator and interpreter… Until a terrorist group, Judas, forces the city to lock down. Acting as an interpreter for Japanese officers coming to assist with the newly erected task force, her cover is nearly blown when she comes face to face with the last person she expected--her ex-boyfriend, Takeru Sasazuka. And he wants to know why she's calling herself by a different name.(Rating subject to change)
Relationships: Hoshino Ichika/Yanagi Aiji, Sasazuka Takeru/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	1. [redacted]

**Author's Note:**

> wowie zowie! i'm so happy to share this work with you guys. there will be smut affiliated with this fic, but i'm considering releasing those chapters as separate works (rated E), to stay true to the nature of the CxM games and stay on track in terms of plot. don't worry! we'll still have some spicy scenes in this fic, but they'll fade to black (after lots of heavy petting) ^_^.
> 
> some notes that diverge/line up with canon, just to erase any confusion:  
> this fic takes place after aiji's best end event in CxM. rather than capturing/detaining saeki, he is wounded and manages to escape the church.

“Hey, Takeru?”

She pulls the sheets closer, resting her head on his arm. He taps at his keyboard, reaching onto the night stand and dipping a french fry into his milkshake, popping it into his mouth as he flings a finger onto his well-worn Enter key. His expression softens when a buffer comes up, and he sets his laptop at the foot of the bed, turning to her with a ruffle of her hair. _She’s so attentive_ , he thinks to himself, noting how she always waited for that last line of code before cozying up to him.

“Hey, Tsuki.”

Her cheeks are tinged an amorous pink. Maybe it’s from the party, and he smirks, thinking back on his girl knocking back shot after shot with each guest that came in. He likes how popular she is--it reminds him that despite all of her friends, he is the only one who gets to see her like this. Boozed up. Disheveled hair. In his bed, wearing his _HackerOne_ t-shirt, of all things.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” she coos, nuzzling into his chest with bleary eyes. She’s a musician, you can tell by the way her words sing and lull out of her mouth. The rhythmic thump of her heart against his ribs spurs his own heartbeat to rise. Right and left brain. That’s them.

“Oh, really? Want me to do it again?”

He has a mischievous, suggestive grin on his face, and his eyes wander from her swirling hair to her fluttering lashes, down to her fragile, feminine hands curled around him, thumbs tracing the ridges of his abdomen. _You drive me crazy_ , he wants to tell her. _You keep me sane_ , his mind contradicts. His eyes flit to the loading screen that flashes “ _3% remaining…_ ” in soft green text. 

“No. _Pervert_. I meant my ceremony.”

By the time she’s said that, Takeru is already on top of her, knees locked and bodies parallel, his palms on both sides of the pillow beneath her. There’s nowhere to look but at _him_ , he makes sure of it by tilting her chin up, and he’s intent to steal another kiss tonight. He’s stopped dead in his tracks by a dangerous glare that doesn’t match the drunk glow of her cheeks.

“Of course, babe,” Takeru smirks, dipping his head low to capture her lips anyway. “I couldn’t imagine leaving you with the Shrek-faced valedictorian.” Tsuki, of course, obliges his carnal assault on her mouth, unable to contain her laughter. “I forgot his name. Oops.” Another chitter of glee from her. She sounds so young for 19, only two years his junior. “It could have been you, you know. I know 7-Elevens with more security than Columbia.”

And suddenly, he’s on his back. She’d hooked a leg under his knee, flipping him under her and straddling his waist. Now it’s Takeru’s turn to blush when she leans over and plants her cold hands on the crooks of his shoulders. He's pinned. He likes that. “I told you, I don’t need you--I don’t _want_ you-- to ever do something like that for me, Takeru." She's so stern, and her sober gaze makes him swallow back his lust.

Her face is so close that he can count the hairs of her eyebrows, and Takeru scoots back so he’s sitting up against his headboard, aroused by her sudden air of dominance. He turns his head away and Tsuki can see that the apples of his cheeks are crimson. "Christ, Tsu, fuckin' _relax_ ," he sweats. "Shit." He doesn't know how to act when she turns the tables like this. He's so used to being in charge.

Tsuki drops her bravado, laughing when he grabs a throw pillow and places it over his lap, covering the boner that had twitched in response to her assertiveness.

This was their life. Childhood friends to awkward pubescent crushes, confusing ( _very_ confusing) one-night-stands and finally, lovers. 12 long years had come to fruition, and he wasn’t sure who loved the other more. Neither of them said it, ever, but there were many times that he had thought about it... Drunk, sober, high off of her addictive touch.

“So what do you want me to do for you?” Takeru’s hands are on her thighs, thumbs tracing circles over her skin.

Tsuki swipes the pillow off of his lap, and crawls onto the vacant space, her limbs hooking around his neck, pianists’ fingers swirling in his impossible to tame hair. “Anything I want?”

“ _Anything_ ,” he breathes, feeling the tease of her eyelashes on his hot cheek. He could propose tonight, marry her tomorrow, and honeymoon in Hawaii or something the next day. There was nothing he wouldn't do for her, his first friend, his _best friend_. “It’s your special night, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart_. The pet name sends a fresh wave of blood rushing to her face, and Takeru gives a crooked smirk at the pink that tinges Tsuki’s ear when he goes to tuck a lock of hair behind it. So cute. And it was all his.

“Okay.” The sugary moment is cut short by a hand clamping over his red eyes, and a sudden pressure against his groin when Tsuki grinds against him, mewling right into the shell of his ear. Takeru lets out a throaty moan, meeting the pulse of her body. “I want you to close your eyes… And open your mouth.” _Holy shit_. 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, preparing for a kiss, and Takeru’s jaw slackens just enough for his lips to part, hands guiding themselves to rest on Tsuki’s slow-rolling pelvis, fingers hooking into the bands of her underwear, massaging the curve of her hips encouragingly...

Without missing a beat, Tsuki hastily grabs a French fry, swirls it in Takeru’s half-finished milkshake, and crams it into his waiting mouth.

“Hey _mffff_!”

She lifts a leg, unlatching herself, and collapses next to him, turning her back before she can see his dumbfounded expression. “Takeru Sasazuka, I want you to finish your food, finish your work, and _don’t wake me up until you’re done_.”

“Tsu--”

She playfully bumps her bum against his leg. “Nuh-uh-uh, you greedy scumbag. I've lost enough sleep because you can _never_ decide if you want to eat, fuck, or work, and you end up doing all 3 at the same time. You’ll get what you want… after you finish up… whatever it is you’re doing. It’s,” she peeks at the alarm clock on the nightstand, “Two in the morning right now. We have 22 hours tomorrow, 24 the day after that, and until one of us croaks." Tsuki yawns softly, closing her eyes. "It’ll _probably_ be you first... just saying.” Her voice is muffled from the blanket. “Diabetes. Heart disease. Choking while you talk with your mouth full...”

She goes on, listing everything and everything related to his health.

Takeru rolls his eyes, and reaches under the covers, pulling her hand onto his thigh before grabbing a couple of barely-warm fries and going to town. “I’m getting what I want tonight, you dumb cockblocker” he grumbles. Tsuki can see his pouty face, even behind her closed eyes. “You'd better be _sopping wet_ in 30 minutes, or you're gonna be flicking the bean tomorrow on the sofa."

“By all means.” Her voice is a sigh. "But if I'm not wet, you're probably just doing something wrong." He can hear the smile, despite her reluctant attitude.

His fingers fly across the keyboard, and he takes another gulp of his chocolate shake, determined to finish before the sun comes up. He thinks he hears her whisper something in her soft breathing, but it's drowned out by the flurry of keystrokes, quiet chewing, and the thrum of New York City, still awake, even at this hour.

“Idiot.”

Takeru feels a rock climbing up his throat, and he smothers the cough that burns his chest. His hands clench until he can feel the sting of broken skin. _I shouldn’t have seen that._

“Fucking… _Idiot!”_

He slams his fist onto his desk, rattling a framed photo of him, his mother, and a dark-haired little girl. His teeth are clamped tight so the stone can’t escape, but it comes out anyways.

_Tears?_

He blinks and the tension that he had strained to smother came as release, welling in his red eyes. They roll down his face, catching in his lap as dark splotches on his grey sweatpants. Outside his second-story Shinjuku apartment, he can hear the sounds of children walking home from school.

No calls for nearly two years. No texts. But he’d found her anyway.

 _“If you ever need to find me, just call for me,_ ” he recalls her saying, once.

But what if she never answers?

Takeru took matters into his own hands and forced his way into every possible database: medical, financial, morgues, until finally, tonight, he made a breakthrough. He had to know. Every call was a dead end, and even though he broke their promise, the promise to never hack for her sake, _Tsuki had lied first_. “‘Going to California’... my _ass_!” He sniffles, grabbing a tissue and rubbing callously at his eyes.

He'd gone to see her a week ago after winning a hacking competition. He'd spent the duration of the flight poring over how he'd boast about how he smoked out the competition, how he'd grown a couple centimeters taller, and how she'd never have to look over her shoulder ever again in a society as safe as their homeland. Fantasies. Just fiction.

He'd definitely make a move on her, of course, after asking her if she'd found someone new. Not that he really cared. And now, it seems, it wouldn't have ever mattered regardless. Restless, restless, restless. Up until he'd shown up at her door, only to be told that she didn't live there. Not any more. No records, either, even though he swears he had seen her sign those lease papers.

Since then, he's been looking, no, _hunting_. For her. Tsuki Saito, 22 years old, Japanese-American, just like him.

And he'd found her... Just not where he would have expected.

“ _Until one of us croaks… It’ll probably be you first_.”

Tsuki’s words haunt him as he goes over her file again. ‘KIA’ is stamped over the photocopied personnel file. Killed in action… doing what?

  
  



	2. the most dangerous city in the world

San Francisco, California is now the most dangerous city in the world.

It didn’t used to be like this. Granted, it was never the safest place in the world to begin with, but ever since the peninsula has gone into quarantine, you’d be an idiot to be out past midnight.

Adonis. X-Day. The world watched as Japan endured nearly a year of terror and trauma. I recall the feeling of relief that came to me, believing that nothing close could rattle America. Not after 9/11. After all, we're well over the quota of patriots, and in recent years, the country has come to feel more unified and diverse than ever before.

Even though the time on my phone reads 12:30 in the morning, I'm no idiot. I actually like to think that I’m pretty smart.

But that doesn’t mean I’m always right.

Nearly 9 months after the purge of the Adonis organization, it seems that the serial killings have migrated to the other side of the ocean in the form of an even more radical, even more terrifying, and even more puzzling terrorist faction: Judas.

The Judas Group seems to be an iteration of one of the organized criminal bodies broiling in the waters of the Pacific, with a worldwide reach. They’re extremists and murderers. It’s no doubt that they are a branch of Adonis, or at least inspired by the likes of them. I’d been given case dossiers, victim files, and videos, and pored over all of them for the last few nights. Except for the videos. Those were impossible to stomach.

The broadcasts are nationwide. It was like watching a live, unscripted broadcast of Saw. In Japan, the reasons for the crimes seemed to be for justice, or revenge. But the graphic murders that I’ve seen on video seem far from that. I never finished the first video. I shut it off after they injected a child with a syringe and made his family watch as he overdosed. I heard that they made the father watch the rest of his children and his mother die, one by one.

A new video came out just this week. The same terrified man was there, nothing but bones. They’d starved him. But most importantly… nobody had been able to find him. 

It’s one thing to shoot someone. If anything, after a while, you learn to detach before you even pull the trigger. A quick death, if you are a good shot and a merciful killer. By far, it's less cruel than any of the other methods we will see.

There are no numbers denoting a countdown, but the city is rattled. Authorities don't care to wait long enough to find out when our X-Day is planned to take place.

After the release of the second video, a chilling slaughter of tourists, the mayor took heed from Shinjuku: there are police checkpoints on all bridges that go directly in and out of the city. Military blockades stretch the entirety of South San Francisco. All ports have closed and are redirected to other coastal cities. The only exceptions are for thoroughly inspected freight trucks going in and out of the city, making sure the 880,000 mouths within the city limits are fed. Curfews stretch from 12AM until 8AM, and while sports games and concerts still take place, it's not like anyone's playing any time soon.

Even though life has yet to pause, people walk differently, now. Keep your head down but your eyes on a swivel. Make sure you don’t move too slowly, but definitely don’t move too fast. Should you keep your hands in your pockets, or out in the open?

The former: nobody trusts you. They don’t know what you’re hiding in your coat pocket. But on the upside, people will stay away from you. Most sensible people, at least.

The latter: you’re not dangerous. You’re not alert. The September chill doesn’t bother you. _You’re an easy target_.

For anyone curious, I keep my hands in my pockets, all the way to the police department.

“Name?”

I fumble through my bag, grabbing my MoMa badge. “Nancy Hanamura. I’m with the Museum of Modern Art but…”

Edith, from her name tag, smiles and nods. She doesn’t look at me twice, waving me off. “6th floor.”

“I’m glad you could make it, Nancy.” Will nudges my shoulder, bringing me back to reality. Somewhere in between X-Day videos, I had zoned out, taking more interest in the grain of the wooden table. “We’d asked for volunteers, but you’re probably the last person I thought I would have seen at this table tonight.”

Volunteer is a funny word for it. I definitely received an invitation by the Bureau to act as a translator, but the only reason I’m here is because of the letter (addressed to T. Saito) that was slipped under my door three days ago. I’m not certain I’m a volunteer… more like a hostage. No one should know that name outside of the top brass in the CIA.

“I’m just wondering why _I’m_ here,” I mutter sheepishly, tugging at my sleeves. “They could have brought in anyone, and I don’t think it’s appropriate to any sort of protocol for a civilian to be here.”

Will, an acquaintance from SFPD, just chuckles.

But it’s true, and it’s probably the smartest response to this whole ordeal. The task force was created without delay after the release of the first video. FBI, Homeland, and police detectives are all crowded into this conference room. Everyone here has a badge, and a gun. Every person in this room serves a purpose. They swore oaths, and to simply _be_ in this space, must have guts.

Everyone except for Nancy Hanamura, museum curator, whose skills include exhibit design, art appraisal, and a fluency in Japanese. She doesn’t even have the clearance level to be on this floor of the building.

However.

 _Tsuki Saito_ was in Japan during the events of X-Day. In fact, she left Shinjuku in August. Her partner was corrupt. He helped deal in illegal firearms that may very well have ended the lives of many fear-stricken Japanese. She shot him in cold blood, and when she returned stateside, the government declared Saito dead, gave her a new identity.

_"You've made an enemy, Saito. And in this world, all you need is one enemy to make your life hell."_

_"You're on standby until further notice."_

I’m pretty sure they burned her because the likelihood of her also being a bad apple was very high.

But because of Tsuki Saito’s _unique_ perspective on the Adonis X-Day incidents, I was asked to come back. Just this once, and I didn’t even need to hold a gun. All I have to do is translate.

I can make sense of why Tsuki Saito is sitting in a room full of qualified professionals. But none of them know why civilian Nancy is so special to be here, not even the top brass in this building. All they know is that my expertise comes 'highly recommended'. I know the details of these incidents like the inside of my own apartment, after only a week of being introduced to the case files. Though it seemed impressive at the time, memorization of documents just came as part of the job. My old one, that is.

To be honest, I don't want to be here. Living as a civilian, life is paced far slower than that of a special agent. I'm no detective, and being in this place puts me right in the center of everything going on in the city.

I feel eyes on me.

“I’d like to introduce a new civilian specialist that we have included in the ongoing investigations.” The statement from Alejandro Bateman, the director of the Judas Task Force, is enough to send a tide of whispers going throughout the conference chambers.

On cue, I stand and give an awkward wave to the room. I don’t even need to act, because it’s nerve-wracking to be in a place where you most definitely don’t belong. This is probably the most attention I’ve received in all of my 24 years.

“Nancy Hanamura will be acting as an interpreter for the Japanese delegation of officers that are en route from Oakland International. As of 0145, these officers have likely touched down, and have a police escort through the Bay Bridge...

...She has been briefed on the confidentiality of any information that passes through the chain of command, and her aptitude in Japanese qualifies her presence in this room. Please be sure to make use of this as we continue this investigation into the relations between the American and Japanese X-Days.”

With that, I take my seat.

The meeting dredges on as investigators announce possible new leads and developments in the city.

“There have been reported missing persons in the Sunset District. Rosalia and Fernanda Marquez, sisters…”

“...Bomb threat at Grace Cathedral…”

“....Armed protest leaders gathering to demonstrate at the Golden Gate…”

We adjourn, and most of the agents make a quiet exit. The investigation is at a near standstill. No wonder the government is riding on aid from the incoming specialists. With no established patterns, no connections, and no thorough leads, the situation seems dire.

“Ms. Hanamura.”

I look to see Director Bateman right behind me. He has a soft, gentle exterior, but I know from the dry callouses on his palms that he’s had to use his gun more times than he would have liked. “Yes, sir?”

“They’ve arrived.”

* * *

Takeru breezes through the dossier in his hands as they pull up to the loading dock at the police department. Their arrival was supposed to be discreet, but there was nothing low-key about the four hefty and blacked-out SUVs parading down the Bay Bridge in an escorted convoy. On the jet, they had drawn lots to figure who would ride where.

“Takeru! It’s like we’re _daimyo_ , making headway at the vanguard of battle!”

Of course, he had to be so unlucky as to get stuck with Mineo, who had slept _so very soundly_ on the plane ride, and had, perhaps, the most energy out of the bunch.

_You’ll be fast asleep by noon. Idiot. Ever heard of jet-lag?_

Takeru, unfortunately, hadn’t had the pleasure of taking a nap, spending the whole flight amping up the security on his laptop and phone. American hackers and cybersecurity specialists are far more talented than in Japan. And right when he’d decided that he’d reached a good stopping point, Okazaki _insisted_ on practicing English. It seemed like he wouldn't be getting any good rest, either. To make matters far worse, arriving in the dead of night meant that all the restaurants would be closed.

His stomach, nearly concave after five starving hours, growls lowly.

In the car ahead of them, Takeru watches as puzzled American officers regard Shiraishi’s cuffed wrists and Okazaki’s blank smile before waving the vehicle through.

Ichika and Yanagi, in the car behind them, were a buy-one-get-one deal, conjoined at the waist ever since their engagement. Takeru was surprised that she had decided to come at all, what with her little brother and his sister complex. Yoshinari was living in the Hoshino residence for the time being, and had been feeding her photos and updates all throughout the night, at which doting older sister would squeal and chirp.

Despite his belief that Ichika is about as sharp as a stone age tool, Takeru cannot deny her centrality to their mission.

Coming to a rolling stop, the car is waved through, and the officers enter the city of San Francisco. Behind the last car, the barricade is re-formed, and AR-brandishing officers return to formation, their eyes trained on the city.

It is clear to Takeru that they are there to intimidate, and not protect.

_“It’s obvious why you want_ me _to go, but I have several conditions.”_

_Takeru doesn’t bother taking a seat in Minegishi’s MPD office. In fact, he already knew this would happen as soon as the second Judas video was published._

_Minegishi gives an expectant nod. “Go on.”_

_“Replace the blockheads from your Investigations HQ that you’re thinking of sending with me.”_

_Minegishi raises his eyebrow. “Replace? May I have your suggestions and reasoning?”_

The United States had requested for support from Japan in solving and ending the attacks in San Francisco led by the Judas Group. That, however, is only their secondary mission.

The primary goal for the jet-lagged and eccentric group of investigators is to capture and detain Yuzuru Saeki, who, despite being cornered in the Shinjuku Gardens, escaped, and likely fled the country via boat.

“WHOAAAA!”

Mineo plasters his face to the window, staring with twinkling eyes at the tall skyscrapers that surround them on each side, before his one-eyed gaze settles onto the warm yellow light of the San Francisco Police Department Headquarters.

“Your face will get stuck like that if you hold it any longer,” Takeru sneers. “Maybe close your mouth before you scare off the locals. Your breath smells like dog water.”

Mineo claps a hand over his slacked jaw, breathing out of his mouth and inhaling deeply through his nose. “Wait, wait! It smells fine!”

“Mister Sasazuka, Mister Enomoto, we’ve arrived.”

Mineo looks triumphant. It seems he’s found the perfect comeback.

“Well _maybe_ , you’re just smelling--”

The SUV pulls to a slow stop, and Takeru quickly unfastens his seat belt and hops out of the car, slamming the door.

“--your upper lip.”

Mineo dejectedly clenches his teeth, groaning at his missed opportunity.

* * *

I walk quickly to catch up to Director Bateman’s long strides. It’s plenty cold in the building since most of the investigators have gone home, and I draw my coat tighter around me as we venture through the doorway to greet the tired VIPs. Only a few other agents and the chief of the SFPD make up our welcome entourage.

They’re a ragtag group, that’s for sure. One of them, the tallest out of the group, stamps out a half-smoked cigarette under his foot as he hears the clamor of our footsteps. I count six of them, including one woman no taller than me and a blonde man in... _handcuffs_?

“Miss Hanamura?”

My breath catches in my throat as I see a head of unruly, pale hair, jacket strewn lazily over sloping shoulders.

“Miss Hanamura.”

A warm hand encloses the cap of my shoulder and I instinctively flinch, shrugging it off. My feet are planted, and ahead of me, Director Bateman has a quizzical, concerned expression on his brow.

“ _Gome--_ I mean, sorry,” I apologize, feeling red creep onto my nose. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, and the red stare in my periphery invigorates the feeling in my legs. I can’t cause a scene here.

Police Chief Geer gives me a hesitant smile, placing his hand back onto his utility belt. “It’s alright. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I traipse up to Bateman, who regards the foreigners warmly. “Welcome, and thank you for joining our investigation. We are very grateful for the cooperation of the Japanese government and authorities.”

I spit out his greeting in rushed Japanese, and I feel the wide-eyed stares of our visitors. It seems they weren’t expecting an interpreter. We’ve all subconsciously lined up to face each other, and the officers around me give introductions that I repeat.

The smoker is Yanagi Aiji. He speaks in a low tone, giving me a polite nod to move on to the woman next to him. She clutches on to him, visibly chilled by her lack of outerwear, and the large rock on her ring finger tells me that the two of them are likely married. Despite her mousy appearance, she introduces herself with a low bow and a strong voice. Hoshino Ichika. For the sake of the men behind me, I deliver their names in Western order.

“ _Ah, my apologies.”_ The next voice is soft, and I meet eyes with a man bearing an SP badge. From my time in Tokyo, I’d been warned to look out for those guys. “My name is Kei Okazaki,” he bows, speaking English with a strong accent. “And this man is Kageyuki Shiraishi, a renowned profiler. His observations paved the way to solving the Adonis assassination attempt on the Prime Minister several years ago. I’m here to escort him.”

Kei gives a hollow smile before letting Kageyuki bow.

Bateman’s lip tightens, hearing the jingle of Kageyuki’s metal cuffs. “Should I be concerned about the hand cuffs?” he asks, voice mounded with skepticism.

“He’s under capable hands,” Kei answers curtly, before repeating the Director’s statement to Kageyuki.

The blonde simply laughs, looking me dead in the eyes. “ _I quite like them, actually. Want to try, pretty lady?_ ” His face is a flirtatious deadpan, and he finishes off with a wink.

“What’d he say?”

“He said that there’s no need to worry,” I lie, covering my face with a rosy-knuckled hand, blowing mouthfuls of air over my fingers in an attempt to unfreeze them as well as hide the flush on my cheeks.

“So why did he wink?” asks Bateman nonchalantly.

“Must have a tic.”

Second to last is Enomoto Mineo, who, instead of bowing, gives a strong salute, as well as flipping up the eyepatch obscuring half of his face to show that he does, indeed, have two functioning eyes. The introduction lightens the awkwardness of Kageyuki’s.

The figure on the end steps forward with a sigh, his eyes trained on me. I look down at my shoes, despite the attention-begging aura he’s directed solely at me.

_Look at me. Look up. Show me your face._

It’s like he’s projected his thoughts into my head. I oblige and release the tension in my jaw, bringing my hand up once again to cover the bottom half of my face. We lock eyes for maybe 3 seconds before he shifts his crimson gaze to the agents. As I expected, he introduces himself in perfect English, sounding irritated and caustic. I can pick out traces of New York in his accent, but what really stands out is the chill in his voice. It’s colder than the September wind that blows past us.

“I’m Takeru Sasazuka. I don’t need a translator,” he snipes. He returns to his spot in the lineup, letting out a huff of air.

Kageyuki laughs, as though he knows more than either Takeru or I let on.

Bateman clears his throat, obviously off-put by the brusque nature of Takeru’s tone. “Thank you all for coming.”

We resume introductions, going down the line. The men keep it succinct, seeing how Ichika and I are cradling ourselves against the sea breeze that has slipped through the streets.

_I am Alejandro Bateman, FBI, and Director of the Judas Task Force._

_My name is Charlie Geer, Chief of SFPD. Thank you for helping my city._

_Oliver Liaw. I’m with agent Aditya Sekhri of Homeland Security._

_Hajimemashite. I am Special Agent Edwin Rosario of the FBI._

“And don’t forget yourself, Miss Hanamura.” Bateman gives me an encouraging nudge, and I nod.

“ _I am Nancy Hanamura. I am not a police officer, but I am a citizen of this city. Thank you for your help..._

 _I know that Okazaki-san and Sasazuka-san speak English, but I am also here to translate any questions you have while you are here,”_ I say with a respectful bow. “ _Nice to meet you_.”

When I come up again, I see that the scowl on Takeru’s face has softened, albeit only slightly. We all exchange one more bow before Bateman gestures for us to return inside HQ.

“I’m sure you’re all tired, but we have lots to go over. Let’s head inside.”

The SUVs roll out and away, and as we return into the police department that is hardly any warmer than outside, I hear a snicker and the dull clack of metal chains.

“ _So you know each other?”_

_“Obviously not.”_

_“Oooh~ touched a sore spot, then? Sorry~.”_

_“... Tch.”_

_“I think this is the first time I've seen you so flustered. Haha.”_

I fight the urge to quicken my pace and set more distance between us. Maybe I should have--the lift is nearly packed when we reach it, and seeing my heeled feet, Officers Liaw and Sekhri unload from the elevator and motion for us to enter. "We'll meet you up there, Miss. Six flights of stairs after a long night won't be too bad for us." I thank them and they set off at a light jog.

On the ride up, I’m wedged between the handrail and Takeru, who sizes me up the entire ride to the 6th floor. Just as we filter out of the elevator and onto the landing, I hear from behind me in Japanese:

“ _I think pink suited you better.”_

I turn around, feigning confusion, to see Takeru emerge past me with a hand in his pocket. He gestures to his head, and I let one of my still-rigid fingers brush through a lock of my dyed black hair before I clench my teeth and shuffle away, back to Bateman and the others who have already sauntered into the meeting room.

I make sure to take a seat between the Director and the Chief of Police, putting as much distance between Takeru and I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!~ i hope you all have a great holiday! i still have to wrap presents >,<
> 
> i'm so excited to get into the thick of things with this fic! i grew up in san francisco, and i hope that you will look into some of the places that are mentioned in this fic and come visit them for yourself!


	3. shot(gun)!

“You’re in my class, right?”

She speaks to him without turning around, small fingers twining wire around a branch as feeble as her own limbs.

A wide-eyed and much shorter Takeru watches the girl from the arch of the garden. He doesn’t answer her question, instead sitting on a bench, a safe distance away. The girls in their grade and younger didn’t like him very much. Tsuki Saito is both. “Huh. Is that _bonsai_?”

Tsuki nods, again without turning around. She’s short for fourth grade, he supposes, and pink locks of hair frame her almost infantile features, tucked into a braid that looks like a fraying rope. Obviously she’d done it herself.

The planter boxes at their primary school are too tall, especially for her, and she balances on tiptoe, tongue stuck out like a pug. Her eyes seem to be bulging the same way a pug’s do, too, hyperfocused on what Takeru thinks is a sad excuse for a plant. He even says so, brows nonchalant but eyes biting and drawn to the way she forms the withered tree.

“It’s dead,” he muses, biting into one of the glazed donuts his father had dropped off. “I think the frogs we dissected this morning in science were more lively than _that_ . And you’re the one who’s in _my_ class,” he corrects with a sneer, chomping another section of donut. The glaze crumbles and melts in his lap. It’s a humid, hot August day in Manhattan “You skipped a grade, right?”

Tsuki turns around with a comically adorable, but entirely serious, jut of her lip. “I was in Mister Roswel’s class _first_ ,” shoots the 7-year-old. She’s the size of a mouse but seems to have the ferocity of a lion. “You just came here like _a month ago_ . I _accelerated_ through _TWO_ grades, and MY PLANT IS _NOT_ DEAD!” The words come out in a jumble, her age now very apparent from the lisp that escapes the gaps where two front teeth should have been.

Takeru stifles a cackle when the kid whips back around, mumbling to herself as she tries to remember where she left off. “It’s dead,” Takeru repeats again, dusting the remaining crumbs off his lap and popping his fingers into his mouth one by one, lapping up the flakes of maple glaze that had yet to be caught by the late summer heat wave.

“IT. IS. _NOT!_ ”

With a teary-faced scowl, Tsuki hops down from her makeshift step stool (a collection of reference books from the school library), and snatches a surprised Takeru by the sleeve of his uniform. “Hey, kid, calm dow--”

It takes all of her strength to, but Tsuki manages to drag Takeru over to the planter so that his face is centimeters from the bark. “ _Look_.”

Takeru’s reluctant eyes follow her finger, trailing along the wire until they finally rest on a green bud. He sighs, raising his hands in defeat. “Fine. Your little tree is just _barely_ alive. Congratulations.” Before Tsuki can enjoy her little victory, he rolls his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets with a roll of his red eyes. “But, I still think it’s hopeless. It’s just going to get colder and colder. Your little sprout won’t last the winter. You’d be lucky if it survives the fall.”

“Hmph,” Tsuki crosses her arms with a haughty pout, “I’ll show you, uh… er...”

She searches her brain for what seems to be a good five minutes before Takeru offers a hint.

“Same initials as your name, chibi-chan.”

Without her front teeth, Tsuki absolutely butchers ‘Takeru Sasazuka’.

He lets her talk while he plays a game on his phone. Apparently, the plants had names, and she brought them to school from home, since no one was ever there to take care of them. A pity.

Though her plants will later succumb to the winter freeze, Takeru enjoys teasing the younger girl. He comes to see her every other day during lunch, and occasionally partners with her for projects in their 4th grade class. He likes to call her plants by the wrong name (they’re all stupid names anyways, like Buzz and Woody) and even teaches her his favorite swear words.

Messing with Tsuki is easily the most fun he’s had since moving to America.

* * *

I’d thought it was the wrong address before I can see Ichika and Aiji walk hand-in-hand out of the revolving door, Mineo trailing behind them. They’re wearing casual attire, rather than the uniforms they had worn off of the plane. I wave them over to where I’m parked, unfastening the buttons on my coat as they approach.

“Good morning,” I greet formally, bowing. “Are you ready to go? Do you have everything?”

“Yes!” Ichika sounds excited, and she bubbles with excitement. “I know there’s lots to do still, but I’m glad that you can escort us on your off day,” she adds, reminding me of the investigation. It’s hard to forget, actually, but since our first briefing last week, no new leads have shown up. She seems a little dense, but overall a good person. Just under a year ago, she’d had a metal collar fastened around her neck, filled with poison that could kill her at any moment. We had no idea about that until they arrived.

Mineo interrupts my train of thought. “ _Shotgun!_ ” he proclaims in English, clambering into the passenger seat.

From the looks of it, Aiji and Ichika were planning on sitting together anyways. We load into the car, and the three of them (really just Ichika and Mineo), chatter about what to see first.

With no input to offer on the investigation, Bateman gave us all a day off after our third meeting. We had exchanged lots of information with the Japanese officers, mostly in regards to the chip implants in the criminals who committed the X-Day events of last year, the mind-erasing, and the cycle of substitution murders that occurred, hoping to shed new light on the situation at hand. Only the top guys in the investigation knew about Ichika’s collaring, and, by default, me.

I’m not really sure why they’ve kept me around. Kei speaks passable English, and Takeru showed his prowess off more than enough times necessary to convince them of his fluency. Perhaps it’s because of Kei’s accent…

Nah. It’s definitely because of Takeru’s bristling commentary.

I smirk at the thought, feeling nostalgic of old times.

“Buckle up, please,” I ask, craning my neck to check if Aiji and Ichika have fastened themselves in. Aiji looks cramped, sitting in the space behind me, his long legs locked at an acute angle. “Yanagi-san, let me scoot up a bit for you. Excuse me.”

“It’s alright,” he reassures, but I push my seat up regardless, thankful that it’s only these three who wanted to come along. My Prius is more than enough room for me, but this is by far the most people I’ve ever had in here. Kageyuki is, for the most part, house arrested, and from what I know of Kei, he may be sleeping. And Takeru…

There’s a rap on my window.

Looking up from the ignition, I see a sharply-dressed Takeru, looking over my car with an unimpressed scowl. His arms are crossed, coat thrown lazily over his shoulders, and gestures with a pointed finger. _Windows. Down._

“Sasazuka-san,” I say with a nervous, clenched chuckle. This is fucking awkward. “I thought you wouldn’t be joining us today since you had work to do. Everything okay?”

Everyone behind me went silent as soon as they heard him knock against my window. It seems like they, too, didn’t expect him to show up.

He scoffs, flashing a handheld computer that had been hidden behind the breast of his jacket. “I said I had _work_ , not that I couldn’t come. Unless you don’t want me to come along, _Hanamura._ ” He may as well have cussed me out with the way he spits my last name.

“No, no, by all means,” I give a cheap smile, one that must have seemed far too eager. “Please, join us. There’s still room for one more,” I say warmly, despite the temptation to reply with sarcasm.

“Where? In the trunk?” He gives another mean glare, cracking a smile the way he always does before he says something mean. “How can I trust you to show us the city if your little tike car breaks down on a slope?”

You really never get used to his teasing. I roll my eyes. “Just… get in.”

He smirks, and instead of opening the back door, cruises over to the passenger side, waving over Mineo with a smug expression.

“Huh?!”

Mineo looks distressed as Takeru opens the door. “Up.”

“But I thought in America whoever calls shotgun is supposed to--”

Takeru shakes his head, and Mineo stops dead in his tracks. “No, it actually goes to whoever is smartest,” he snickers, basking in Mineo’s chagrin. “What’s your IQ again?”

“So you’re saying that Yanagi-senpai and Hoshino…”

Takeru cuts him off again. “Hoshino is definitely a moron--”

“Hey!”

“--but she is _Yanagi’s_ moron, and he so dearly loves her that he sits with her in the back. Look. They’re even holding hands. _You_ are _nobody’s_ moron, so you sit in the back. Don’t fight me on this,” Takeru grins. “I grew up here, remember?”

Before I can protest, Mineo dejectedly unbuckles his seatbelt, offering his seat to Takeru with a hurt face. I see that he wants to reply, shoot something back at his oppressor, but his wit is no match for Takeru.

With the car reshuffled, Ichika sits in the middle seat, knees nearly pressed to her chest, with Aiji remaining behind me, and Mineo behind Takeru, whom he tries to pester by kicking at his chair like a child on an airplane.

Takeru looks at me with a satisfied smirk. “So, _Nancy_ ,” he jeers in English. “Where to first?”

I start the engine, heading off towards the Golden Gate Bridge.

* * *

“Is this the place, you think?” Kei shuffles his weight from foot to foot, looking at the oak door with curious eyes. The plate on the door has 2C written in a bold, iron font. He peers into the eyehole.

“It’s the right address, certainly.”

Next to him, Kageyuki waves a hand through a lock of his hair. “The lock on the door is different than the ones on the other doors we passed, though.”

He finds this interesting, making note of it. He’d made note of everything, actually. The apartment is in a fairly upscale area, likely an area with very little crime, with nice amenities like a private pool and gym for resident use. He finds it odd that the doorman let them in, a man who might have assumed that the two of them were residents, given their nice dress and calm demeanours. Very interesting, indeed, given the state of emergency around all other parts of the city.

“I’m going to be very honest, Shiraishi… I don’t know how to pick a lock.”

Kageyuki just laughs. “You don’t have to.” He holds up two fingers and points outside.

Kei gives a warm smile, nodding. “You’re right. It’s only the second floor.” Kei pause for a moment, considering their current location, and starts down the hallway. “I’ll be right back.”

After a few minutes, Kageyuki hears agitated barking from the other side of the door, before the locks unlatch and it flies open, revealing his silver-haired companion holding a panting, happy-looking dog. “Sorry it took so long… I wasn’t expecting this cute little guy!”

Shiraishi brushes past the two, closing the door behind him.

Kei sets down the puppy, bribing its silence with belly rubs and head scratches while Kageyuki takes in his surroundings.

The loft is luxurious in design, but plain in terms of furnishing. There aren’t any pictures, he notes. It’s typical to see framed photos of family or friends, maybe a lover. The tall, warehouse-style windows overlook the street, but are drawn shut, with looming blackout curtains, askew only from the fire escape where Kei had dropped in from. How strange that the person who lives here, in a picturesque loft, doesn’t seem to enjoy the view.

“Did you see any cameras?” Kageyuki inquires over his shoulder. He takes a look in the fridge, noting the absence of any photographs or Christmas cards.

“None.” Kei pushes himself off of the floor, with the tamed pooch following at his heels. “No security, either, actually.”

Kageyuki hums to himself, thinking. “You start in the living room and kitchen. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

Takeru had asked a favor of them personally that morning, and Kageyuki thought it very interesting how he and that woman--Nancy Hanamura--interacted. There was an unresolved tension between the two of them, but what piqued him most was the unspoken familiarity that played across each of their faces any time the other opened their mouths. Especially Hanamura… she had the same eyes that he saw every day in the mirror. The eyes of someone who played a part.

Of course, only he would be able to see something like that within a person. And Takeru, too, but for different reasons.

_“You don’t often ask for my help, Sasazuka.”_

_“I know. That’s why you’re going to do it.”_

_“Oh? Really now…”_

_“And because you want to know about her too.”_

  
  


Like the living room, there are no photos, however…

It’s brightly lit, with sunlight falling onto a small collection of well-kept bonsai in a planter by the window. He rubs a branch between two fingers, and they are real, not just for decoration.

Kageyuki’s eyes scan the bedroom, and his hand creeps on the mattress. One side is more sunken than the other. She lives alone, but the mattress is still relatively new, despite the 4 year lease on the apartment.

The nightstand is bare, and he peruses through the drawers. Cigarettes, an e-cigarette device, e-cigarette juice, a few lighters, and fragrant candles.

There’s a walk-in closet, and Kageyuki flicks the light on. You can learn a lot about a person from what they wear.

He mutters to himself as he browses through her wardrobe. He’s been muttering to himself quietly this whole time, but in the quiet of the closet, his whispers seem to boom.

“Working woman… professional… sophisticated… Are these organized by purpose? Going out clothes… would like to see her in that… or that.. especially this one! Heels… small feet… lots of black for casual clothes… designer brands, but… not flashy… still has tags… she likes to wear this one… works out…”

The gears in his head are working overtime when he spies a piece that stands out. It wasn’t a dinner dress or designer bag but rather…

Kageyuki lifts a hanger off the rack, his head tilted with delight. They could have found her autobiography, and this singular piece of clothing still told him much more about the woman who lived there than anything else in the house.

“Shiraishi!”

He’s snapped out of it by Kei, who calls from the other room.

Placing the hanger back where he found it, Kageyuki flicks off the light, leaving the door slightly ajar, as it was.

_“So, what am I looking for?”_

_“You’ll know it when you see it.”_

_“You seem to place a lot of trust in my abilities. Thank you~.”_

_“Don’t say it like that. There’s simply no one else who can do it.”_

Kei is standing in the kitchen, staring at the dining room table with one hand on his hip, the other clenched into a thoughtful fist by his mouth.

“Sasazuka sure knows how to pick them,” Kageyuki laughs, inspecting the items on the oak table.

“In a cereal box, of all places, for those. _That_ was in a false bottom under the knife block. And _this_ was in the stuffing of one of the sofa cushions.”

So _fascinating_. You could craft so many excuses for all of these things, and Kageyuki wants to know which she would pick, if confronted. In fact, he hopes that he can watch that moment go down.

“Put them back where you found them, exactly as you found them. We can have one more look around, I think, before we leave. Make sure you find a computer or something so our seaweed-head can do some of his own detective work.”

“Understood.”

Fake passports flaked with cereal dust, a wad of American and foreign currencies, and a loaded gun. Very interesting paraphernalia for a woman who works in the art collection industry.

As they leave, Kageyuki catches a glance of the wall calendar, smiling thinly. Something fun would be happening tonight.


	4. bad memory

Tsuki adjusts the straps of her backpack as she walks down the hall, feeling a throng of eyes and whispers follow her as she heads to her first period class. Her bag has always been heavy, laden with endless textbooks, but today especially, it feels like it’s filled with nothing but bricks. She feels like she might as well crawl to class.

“Her dad? Arrested? No way!”

“Read the news, it’s everywhere.”

“My parents don’t read the paper any more, but we saw it on TV!”

“They interviewed her neighbors, is that really what her house looks like?”

“Dean Bowers should kick out that terrorist trash--”

“Nah, he’d never. She’s an honor student.”

“Bet her old man’s been threatening the staff, that’s why she gets such good grades. She definitely can’t afford to be here otherwise.”

Did high schoolers talk this much? Had they always been so cruel?

She rounds the corner instead of going straight, flopping onto the edge of the fountain in the courtyard. All the strength she’d mustered that morning just to get out of bed is gone now, less and less with each step until, finally, there was none.

She pulls out her phone, typing out a text.

> ` **You said you could make it stop.** `

For a moment, she hesitates. The first bell rings, echoing through the empty quad. Her phone buzzes right after.

> ` **Thank you for reaching out.** `
> 
> ` **Yes. I can.** `
> 
> ` **What do I have to do?** `
> 
> ` **We’ll make everything go away.** `
> 
> ` **Remember… We never talked to you.** `

The second bell rings and footsteps brush through the grass just as Tsuki tucks away her outdated flip phone. She doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

“Are you a moron or something? Want to give people more reasons to talk shit?” Takeru hoists her up by the straps of her bag, unfazed by the weight of her books. Despite his harsh tone, she sees sympathy in his features. “I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t peg you as the type to cut class.”

Takeru is the smartest person she knows. There’s no way he hasn’t heard about what happened to her father, and yet…

“You’re late, _dummy_. And you’re making me late, too. Chop-chop, or you're eating lunch alone.”

He mentions nothing and pushes her in the direction of their English class, and while stragglers still rubberneck as Takeru nudges her along step by step, the whispers have ceased.

After all, Takeru had personally made it very clear over the last several years that the only person who can bully little Tsuki Saito is him.

The next day, her father is publicly exonerated. The articles disappear, and in a few weeks, everyone at school has moved on to the next breaking news. Tsuki moves out of her old house and into a smaller, but nicer, apartment with her aunt. It’s only a few blocks away from Takeru’s.

Though all the talk has ceased, for some reason, Ennosuke Saito never comes home.

* * *

“Bimbo! Bimbo, _tadaima!_ ”

There’s a skitter of feet across the floorboards, and I stoop down just in time to catch the blur of black and white that zips into my arms. My mouth can’t help but break into a smile, and I laugh as she yips excitedly at my arrival.

“Not so lonely with you around, sweetie pie.” I reach to grab a treat from one of the baskets under the footbench, letting my puppy pick it out of my hand before she goes to sit on the sofa, waiting for me to take off my shoes. “How was your day today?”

Big black eyes follow my voice into the kitchen, where I grab a whiskey glass and ice ball, pouring over the ice with a heavy hand. Bimbo gives a small bark in response to my question. _My day was long. Welcome home._

“Mine too,” I groan with a swirl of my glass. I don’t even bother waiting for the ice to melt and water down the cheap whiskey I’d settled on for the night, guzzling it down and pouring another before I slink into something more comfortable. 

Flicking off the light in the closet, I pull my Columbia hoodie over my head, emerging from my room after I’ve fished out a pair of knee-high socks. I drag my feet and slosh more liquor into my glass after I tip it into my mouth and feel a few drops of spice roll out.

I clamber onto the sofa next to Bimbo, who pads over and nudges her way onto my lap, licking my sweater. As I feel the warmth of the booze tingle my neck and up to my ears, I find myself ranting about my day. The absence of traffic made sightseeing so much quicker, and the photos Ichika took turned out superb with hardly any other people photo-bombing in the background. Still, I can’t help but feel like I’ve forgotten to do something important.

Every day in this city, I’ve been restless, even more so because of Judas, and the incompetence of the task force that’s been put in place. Going out today was actually…

“Nice. Can you believe it?” I ask rhetorically, hands outstretched in disbelief. Bimbo perks up and I chuckle softly. “Sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to get you excited,” I apologize, patting her head.

Normal. It’s been a few years since I’ve felt like that.

I jump at the jarring buzz of my phone against the coffee table, and Bimbo skitters away, careening into the bathroom. She’s probably gone to take a shit on her mat. A sigh escapes my lips as I check the caller ID and see that it’s Martina. The feeling of forgetfulness wades in with the buzz of my whiskey.

“Hey, where are you?” There’s a profound amount of background noise, and her voice is at a yell.

_Shit._

I glance over at the calendar on the wall. September 7th. I definitely _had_ forgotten something. “It’s my first show tonight, I’m on in less than an hour, and you’re my _only_ guest-lister since Jackie and my mom live in Oakland! _Where are you_?” She sounds… frantic. Even though Martina had only been friends with Nancy since my reassignment, I feel guilt stir up with my anxiety. I can’t believe I completely forgot about her first show...

Do I lie?

I weigh the options carefully in my head, and respond, “I just wanted to take Bim out for a quick walk first, but I’m almost home! I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Martie, I promise!”

As I fib through my teeth I rise from the couch, pulling on a sleeveless, cropped shirt with a mock neck and black pants. Parts of my pants are cut out, with leather buckles fastened over them. I feel the chill creep in through the keyhole cut in my top and in the mirror I consider changing my outfit. Too edgy?

Nope, no time. It’s a 5 minute drive to the club, and in the state I’m in, I’ll have to walk or hail a cab. My outfit looks good, but I highly doubt that three glasses of bottom shelf alcohol will keep me warm, even if I top it off with overpriced cocktails.

I grab my ID and some cash, shoving them into the back of my phone case before I kiss Bimbo goodnight.

I lock the door behind me, but pop back in after I’ve set a few paces down the hallway. I grab a retractable knife from its place in one of the storage baskets, tucking the false bottom back and re-placing Bimbo’s treats. I stick the knife in the ankle of my boot, and after I evaluate the feeling in my gut, I grab another for good measure.

I check the time and there’s still 15 minutes until 9 PM.

I guess I’m walking.

* * *

If there’s one thing Takeru hates, it’s crowds. The only thing he hates more than that are lines. And idiots. _Especially_ idiots. And liars.

That goddamned _Nancy Hanamura_ is making him endure all that and more.

But he has to know.

Is this the woman he was looking for for a year?

Could it be that she’s the woman he mourned for nearly twice that?

If it is…

He’s going to tear her to shreds for making him, _of all people_ , look like a fucking idiot.

Spending a whole day of his life squished into a Prius, getting carsick in the nonsensical infrastructure of San Francisco, questioning whether the woman behind the wheel is the doppelganger of his (what to even call her? he doesn’t know) childhood friend or if he’s just projecting.

“Is that Hanamura?!”

He gives Mineo a hard jab with his elbow. “Keep your voice down, moron. You’ll scare the locals.”

Kei nods. “He’s right. You’re being too loud, and she’ll see us. Turn your head this way.”

“Or what?” Mineo sulks, pulling his bomber jacket closed with a huff. “I’ll scare the locals?”

Takeru narrows his eyes, careful to stay out of Nancy’s periphery. “ _Yes_ , you caveman.” He drops his voice to a murmur, careful that no one is within earshot save for the other three men gathered round. “In case your single-celled, one-track mind forgot, let me spell it out for you. Judas is an Adonis knock-off, _idiot_ . Adonis is a _Japanese_ terrorist group, _idiot_ . We are speaking _Japanese_ right now, _idiot_ . We _are_ Japanese, _idiot_. Can I trust you to know that adding four ‘ones’ equals four?”

“So why did you invite me!” Mineo whispers back in an aggressive reply.

“We didn’t invite you.” Kageyuki’s cool voice filters over the crowd. Even amongst the Americans, he’s tall. “Yanagi just asked us to ‘do him a solid’ and have a boys’ night so he and Hoshino are alone for a bit. I’m sure you two know that you can be a bit… grating.”

“Two!” Takeru scoffs with a wrinkle of his nose.

“She’s cutting the line,” observes Mineo, leaning backwards and craning his head. He immediately readjusts himself, covering his mouth with a shy hand. “T-T-T-Tattoo!”

“What?” He hadn’t really looked, but Takeru’s curiosity gets the better of him. He peers sideways at Nancy, who chats with one of the guards, providing her identification with a smile that makes him bristle. Sure enough, there’s a tattoo that peeks out from her shoulder blades, scrawls of hiragana that run perpendicular to her spine. He can’t make out the text because it disappears under her crop top, the latter half poking out at her exposed waist. Another few tattoos ink the arm on the same side, her right arm, ending just at her elbow.

He’s never seen that much skin on her. Nancy always dresses business casual at HQ, and with it being autumn, she wore long sleeves on their excursion earlier that day. 

“I believe she knows one of the DJs tonight,” Kageyuki chimes in, his careful gaze following Nancy as she strides into the venue.

“We’re not getting in any time soon. At least, not for a good 20 minutes,” Kei yawns, pulling out his eye mask. “Shiraishi, can I lean on you?”

* * *

There’s another buzz from my pocket and I answer it.

“NANCYYY! Where are you? I’m freaking out, please!”

I have to yell over the buzz of the crowd in the lobby area. “I’m here, I’m here! Chill out, jeez!” Someone bumps into me while I have the phone pressed to my ear and I clench my jaw, ignoring it. I’m not keen on crowds, but I’d outgrown my claustrophobia long ago. “Where can I find you?”

I tilt the phone away from my head when I hear the beginnings of one of Martina’s high-pitched squeals, only putting it back after it’s certain that she’s run out of breath. “You made it! Holy shit, uh, I’m upstairs! We have a table in the mezz upstairs, come up, come _up_!” I hold back a laugh, realizing how drunk she is over the phone.

“Okay, I’ll see you there.”

I hang up and head for the curving stairs that lead to the mezzanine area looking over the dance floor, flashing my ID one more time to the bouncer posted at the first landing.

Martina rushes me the moment she sees my head come over the top of the stairs, wrapping warm arms around me, hopping gleefully. She’s like my dog, and I reach out to pat her on the head.

“You made it,” she breathes with relief, pulling away and smiling. “Shit, have you drank anything yet?”

I nod. “Just a little whiskey to warm me up before I left the house. I walked here instead of taking a cab.”

Martina drags me over to one of the VIP tables reserved for performers. Ours looks slightly underpopulated when I glance over at the chaises in our vicinity. DJs have girls propped on each arm, with collections of bottles littering the low tables. Friends and club VIPs look out over the metal railing onto the dance floor below, which, from up here, looks like an aquarium from the top down.

“You walked, _drunk_ , in the middle of the night?” I look up to see Martina’s flabbergasted eyes regarding me. “Wearing _that?_ You’re insane!” She cackles, offering me a beer.

“Not beer,” I decline politely, taking in the people around us. I hide the caution that blips through my head when I see the familiar bulge of a handgun tucked into the waistband of someone’s pants.

Martina’s eyes go wide. “Oh, sorry, N, I forgot you don’t like beer.” She waves over one of the staff. “AMF?” She’s talking to the server, but her brown eyes are resting on me for approval.

I hold up two fingers. “Two of them, please,” I request. “Separate tab.”

“Nope. _My_ tab,” Martina waves the woman off. “Thank you!” She crosses her legs in an effort to stop her restless foot tapping. “You are my guest tonight, let me treat you, ok? You hooked me up with jockeying that gala in January, so it’s on me.” There’s a rise in volume from the ground floor as more people enter the venue, and Martina’s voice is now a shrill yell. Filler music plays.

“I’m big on liquor, Martie,” I try to reason with her. She’s still a college student, and I know she lives alone. I definitely have to be far from sober once the music starts, and with one glimpse at the place, I know the bar is definitely up-charging on the drinks.

Her eyes look like they’re going to pop out of her head, and I turn to see where she’s looking.

Just as he’s about to tap my shoulder, one of the bouncers apologizes. “Sorry, miss, but can you come with me?”

“What’s the issue?” Martina stands up, trying to place herself between me and the burly man that towers over us.

“Is she your guest?”

My friend swallows and I see her start to sweat. Shit. She’s already panicky.

After a back and forth, Martina comes with me, holding my hand as we’re led downstairs.

We haven’t even reached the first landing when I see what the problem is.

Or, rather, I _hear_ it.

“Nancy!”

Christ on a _fucking_ bike.

Kei waves to me from the other side of velvet rope, joined by Kageyuki, Mineo, and Takeru. “Nancy, sorry we’re late~!” he calls in singsong.

“You know these guys?”

The bouncer hovers over me with his arms crossed in an intimidating stance. Even in heels, standing a step over him, we just barely see eye to eye.

Before I can answer, Martina surprises me by waving back at them with a cheerful grin. “Hi guys! Thanks for coming!” she squeaks. “Let them through, please, and put their drinks under my tab, sir.” I’m surprised that she addressed the guard at all, what with how shy she’s always seemed. 

He looks at her for a moment, then flashes an ‘ok’ sign to the guy by the rope, letting the boys through.

Takeru is scowling, and I hear him snip at the guy by the cordon. “Told you we knew them.”

Awkwardly, we’re led back up the stairs, and I’m painfully aware of the bouncers who have their eyes trained on us.

At the table, Martina looks like she’s found heaven. The guys line up at the bar, and her eyes greedily check them out. “You’re my best friend, you know that?” She’s leaned in, and I can see her blown pupils quiver. “You brought all these cuties here to support me,” she blushes, and I watch her shaking gaze. “You’re my best fucking friend, Nancy!”

I chuckle, but it’s short lived. My tone turns stern. “Of course, Nancy. I want you to feel special tonight, especially since your family is on the other side of the bridges…” I watch her features, carefully deciding my next words before the boys show up, while we still have our privacy. “Did you take something?”

She gulps.

No answer is an answer, and I feel anger bubble in my gut. “Who gave it to you, Martina? What is it?”

I grab a bottle of water from the basket on the table, uncapping it and pushing it towards her. Wordlessly, she takes hearty gulps. I understand now why she was so carefree towards that guard. Molly? Ecstasy? She didn’t have time to do any cocaine, at least not while I was here. With the city on lockdown, I trust drugs even less than I could have.

“Martina, _fuck_ , and you think _I’m_ insane? The bridges are closed and you took--”

“Here’s your drink.”

I stop short of what I’m going to say as Takeru interrupts Martina’s scolding, sidling next to me. I jerk my leg away when he places it on my thigh, the warmth from his hands hot where my skin is exposed. He has my other AMF in his hand, and he’s already sipping it. I don’t have time to wonder how long he’s been sitting there, because the other three have started to settle in, with Martina sandwiched between Kageyuki and Mineo. Kei sits at the head of the table, and I see that he only has water in front of him, and his eyes scan the room constantly.

“E- _Excuse me,”_ I stammer, but Takeru puts his hand back and gives my leg a hard squeeze that shuts me up, sending a pink wave over my face.

“Sorry, _babe_ ,” he shoots me a glare and I feel the stares of everyone at the table. Of all the alibis he could have picked, Takeru just had to fucking pick--

“I’m her boyfriend,” he states simply, with a wicked smile. He takes a hearty sip from what should have been _my_ drink. “I’m Takeru. Sorry to drop in like this, but I couldn’t let my woman out of the house looking like _this_ all on her own, could I?” I’m dumbfounded when he snakes an arm around my waist, tugging me closer to him. Kageyuki snickers, and I look to Mineo for help.

He just crosses his arms and gives me a victorious smirk. This must be my payback for letting Takeru have shotgun earlier. Kei seems indifferent.

“That’s what _I just fucking told her!_ ” Martina exclaims. If you packed any more joy into her, she’d be a Care Bear. “She’s never mentioned you before, though.”

“You don’t believe me? How about I prove it?”

Takeru gives me a squeeze, and jerks my chin so that I face him, planting a rough kiss on my lips that sends Mineo, obviously not used to PDA, reeling. He pulls away and I clench my jaw tightly, covering my lips out of embarrassment.

Martina, however, is not impressed.

“Anyone can kiss her,” she slurs. “ _I_ could even kiss her.” At that, Mineo perks up with boyish intrigue. “What’s her favorite color?”

“Easy. Black.” Takeru answers without missing a beat.

“Her favorite drink?”

“She only has a least favorite drink. Anything carbonated.”

“Huh,” Martina raises an eyebrow. “Well, what’s her star sign?”

“Aries.”

“And yours?”

“Gemini.”

“Oooh~ _compatible!_ Next question, and final question,” Martina chirps as she checks the time on her phone.

It feels like a game show, and everyone’s eyes are flickering between Takeru and Martina.

“What’s her dog’s name?”

“Eh?”

I look over at Takeru, who looks stumped. He grabs his straw and takes another sip, biding his time.

“ _Well?_ ”

I lean back in my seat, curious as to what he’ll say. The latter questions were easy, but he couldn’t possibly know…

Kageyuki clears his throat, and I look up at him just in time to see his lips curve into a smile as he mouths something across the table. Though his face is pointed towards Takeru, I know his intent gaze is focused on me.

“Bimbo.” Takeru sets his glass down. “And I think it’s a _stupid_ name, by the way.”

I look between him and Takeru, suddenly alert, but I feel an arm slink around me once again. “Shouldn’t you get going? Nancy said you’re on at 9:45.”

“Shit, right!” Martina looks pleased at the results of her interrogation. “Make sure you all dance! I’ll be watching!”

After she’s left, I push Takeru away from me, feeling disgusted and upset. I rub my temples, chugging the rest of my drink, feeling the buzz return to my head.

“I don’t know what I should be more upset about,” I start. “First of all, you-you all followed me here!” I glare at them one by one, teeth grinding. “And you’ve been in my house?! What the _fuck_ !” Mineo and Kageyuki probably don’t understand my English, but I don’t care. I turn to Takeru, whose smile has disappeared. “And _you_ . Who the _fucking hell do you think you are_?” I feel my head get lighter, and I sway slightly in my seat. They don’t call it an AMF for nothing. “Don’t touch me ever again, or I’ll…”

“You’ll _what?_ ” Takeru looks bored. “What will you do to me, Miss Hanamura from the Museum of Modern Art?”

That’s right. I’m not me. Brow twitching, I roll my eyes. “I’m going for a smoke. Don’t do anything to embarrass me or I’ll tell the bouncers that you lot are in here groping genitals.”

I get up, popping a cigarette out of my holder, making my way to the balcony door on the other side of the loft.

“Hey, mind letting me out for a quick second?” I brandish the cigarette in my hand a guard with criss-crossed harnessing as the lights dim even more, and the filler music dies down. “I just want to get a quick smoke before my friend goes on.” The first DJ should be on soon, and after that would be Martina. I’d have at least a good 30 minutes to myself before she starts setting up.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I look around. The guys are still at the table, chatting, with Kei facing towards my back. “No can do,” says the man in front of me.

In the club lighting, it was hard to see before, but now, I can make it out properly. Strapped to his back are two rifles, and my eyes flit to the door behind him.

It’s locked shut, with a padlock.

I feel panic fly up to my throat. “Show’s gonna start soon,” he muses. His expression is both deadpan and deadly, and I look quickly at the unaware faces around me. “Better take your seat or get to the dance floor, young lady.”

I nod and hurry away, ducking back into my seat.

“Thought you were going to smoke,” Takeru chides, making room for me, but the alarm on my face is clear as day. He drops his bravado as my voice drops to a whisper.

“Did you notice the bouncers changed?” I ask in Japanese.

The lights go out entirely, and under us, the crowd of club-goers holler in excitement.

Something’s wrong.

I reach for my cellphone and am about to turn on the flashlight when a familiar siren plays over the speakers, booming throughout the club. The men around me stiffen, having heard this very same sound just last week in HQ. A distorted voice blares, loudly.

**We’re so glad that you’ve come out tonight, everyone.**

**We don’t think we’ve had this many people to play with, yet.**

**And we think…**

**Yes. We have some visitors with us here tonight.**

"I think they're talking to us," Mineo grunts. He points at the screens above the DJ booth, where the voice has been translated into Japanese subtitles.

**Yōkoso. **Would you like to witness the grace of Judas?****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for kudos <3 i hope you had a wonderful christmas!


	5. 20 questions

A panicked scream erupts from the crowd below, and before more panic can ensue, there’s a spray of bullets aimed straight at the ceiling. Warning shots.

**No no. We can’t have that.**

The screens overhead are translating in real time. “It’s not pre-recorded,” I whisper to Takeru. When I look over at him, he’s frozen, eyes wide and mouth tightened into a straight line. His hands grip the leather upholstery, nails ripped into the cushion.

I don’t think he’s going to be of any help here.

**In order to play properly, we need everyone to place their hands on the floor.**

**Doggy Style!**

There’s a laugh track that plays through the club, and I tug Takeru to follow my lead, placing my hands on the table. I indicate to the other three that they should do the same.

The nearest guard is posted at the bar, where the bartender is held at gunpoint.

“The doors are barred shut,” I mumble in Japanese. “The guards have military-grade, semi auto rifles.”

“Look onstage.” Mineo’s brow is furrowed, trying to decipher the use of the equipment before us.

**Before we select today’s lucky participants, would anyone like to phone home?**

Another cackle. There’s a sea of hands that raise downstairs, and a small group of figures in mock priest robes have each of them stand.

**Come to the stage, and mind the tanks, please.**

About 50 bodies are lined up in front of what looks like a huge fish tank that spans the height of the first floor. They all look young, and I remember seeing that this club is an 18-and-up venue. Anyone younger than 21 is confined to the first floor, and their hands are marked with an ‘X’ in harsh black marker.

I see a lot of ‘X’s.

**Your cellphones won’t work, but please, say hi to the camera.**

The screens change to a camera POV, the lens shoved into the tear-stained face of a young girl. The man holding the camera whispers something to her before putting the camera back into her face.

“P-P-P-Piper Welick-k-k-ker.” Through her stammer it’s hard to make out her name.

There’s another pause as the cameraman says something else.

“I-I-I d-d-deserve to,” she chokes back her tears, “l-li-ve because--”

There’s a spatter of blood and screams burst through the crowd again. I hear the click of a trigger and my hand crawls on top of Takeru’s just before I hear the deafening roar of semiautomatic fire. He looks pale, and I remember that summer that changed him, the summer he buried his mother.

Spent casings clatter onto the floor, and there’s the thud of dead weight meeting the ground.

When I look up, they’ve resumed filming, smears of blood still on the camera from where the cameraman tried to wipe it off.

“Josiah Ruiz,” says a tough looking man. “I deserve to live because I have a wife and sons at home.”

There’s a pause, but it ends up the same. Josiah’s throat is slashed by the man holding the microphone behind him, but this time, they are careful to not spill too much onto the film equipment.

When he collapses to the floor, there are stifled cries, but no one is shot.

Only three survive the lineup: Naomi Mathers, who deserves to live because she owes someone a favor, Eric Ellers, who deserves to live because he plans to propose to his girlfriend on Christmas, and Brenda Feng, who deserves to live because ‘fuck you’.

The other 47 are dragged offstage somewhere.

Behind Naomi, Eric, and Brenda, the fish tank is complete.

**Take out your phones. Tonight, you will help us send our message.**

They comply with nervous hands, pointing their phones at the tanks.

The club dims again, and the room is flooded with soft light that fills my vision with blue. The tanks onstage are lit perfectly by the overhead spotlights, like a display case.

**Let’s start with another game.**

**How about 20 Questions?**

No one dares to contest.

Takeru begins unfreezing next to me.

“Are you okay?” I ask in a lowered voice, aware of the guard standing less than 20 feet behind us.

“Are you Tsuki Saito?”

I’m caught off guard by the question, and retract my hand from his. “Be serious right now.”

“I _am_ being serious.”

Looks like he’s okay.

**Are you older than 21 years old?**

Heavy footfalls echo in the club, and the five of us are dragged up to our feet, one by one. Anyone with a black X on their hand is still on their hands and knees. Or bled to death in a back room.

**Did you drink tonight?**

Kei is forced back onto his knees. When I look around, there are still a lot of people standing.

**Are you here with friends?**

A number of relieved singles drop to the ground. I remember Martina and my heart sinks. Is she safe?

**I'm sure you wanted a night of fun. I hope this is exciting for you! Are you with a significant other?**

Takeru goes to get back on the floor, but I lightly gesture 'no'. If Judas already knows they’re from Japan, then there’s no telling if someone could have overheard him say that I was his girlfriend.

Kageyuki and Mineo look up at us from where they kneel.

**Lucky you! Do you work in the city?**

If anybody so much as twitches after that question, they are executed, point-blank, and dragged off.

Good thing Takeru and I are still standing.

 **Tch. Please take note of what happens to** **_liars_ ** **. Next question!**

**Are your parents immigrants?**

The questions seem far too specific now, and I wrinkle my brow. My arms feel tired from staying up, and I see that even Takeru’s form has started to become unstable.

**Are your parents divorced?**

“Sit for the next question,” Takeru mutters as he collapses slowly onto his knees. He spreads his long fingers over the table, and I feel his eyes urging me to do as he says.

If it’s something I can lie about, maybe I can sit, but…

**An easy one! Are you a woman?**

It’s another general question, just like our ages. There's no way I can lie about this, and I shift my weight uncomfortably. Takeru clicks his tongue in distaste. Maybe another dozen or so other people are standing, sweating in their club attire, dried mascara running down the women’s faces.

**Hm. I think we might have narrowed it down.**

Narrowed it down? I feel something nuzzle in between my shoulder blades. These questions, they’re--

**Last question!**

They’re targeting someone tonight.

**Is your father in jail?**

“Sit down,” hisses Takeru. “ Are you an idiot, or just stupid? Sit _down_!”

But I can’t. My head spins, and it’s not from the AMF. Dad...

Rough hands relieve me of the task of standing up and I feel myself being carried downstairs. It’s more like dragging. I see Takeru get up from the floor, but someone places a foot on top of his back, holding him down. How did he get on the floor?

"Tsuki!"

The stage is slick with blood and tears. I’m still in a daze, but I can make out four other women holding themselves, their bodies wracked with sobs. I shoot a glance upstairs, and blood runs down the side of Takeru's head. Guns are aimed carefully at the heads of the investigators, and blinking out of my daze, I see that Mineo's cheek is swelling. Their faces are stiff.

Now that I can see the tank, it’s clear that it’s some sort of contraption. There are six clear boxes, most likely glass, within it. They’re tiered, with one at the very top, two in the middle, and three on the ground level. Hoses run through the topmost chamber, and I can see that there are steel bars under the topmost and middle cases.

It’s a drowning mechanism.

Whoever’s at the top has the highest likelihood of surviving.

My phone is wrenched out of my pocket, and the other women’s bags are searched. The man that took my phone dumps the cash inside, holding my ID up to the light.

“This one’s the oldest.”

“Load her in first.”

Lamb to the slaughter. She weeps, climbing a ladder one rung at a time until she’s settled into one of the coffins on the bottom level. We don’t even get to know her name. The voice has changed, and I stare into one of the streaming cameras as I pass it. I move my lips as concisely as I can, and, like Kageyuki earlier, give a hint.

 _“Eventide Club. Converted warehouse. Hurr-”_ My message is cut short by the _crack_ of a fist colliding with my head, and there are gasps that wash over the crowd as I slowly get up.

But a booted foot stomps onto my hand, and I let out a yelp as my fingers are crushed under the heavy heel. I’m forced upright by my ponytail, and I see a seething Takeru twitching. “Next time, it’ll be your neck,” promises the priest.

Even if it costs me my life, I mouth, “ _I’m okay_ ,” upstairs, when they aren’t looking. Takeru does not look reassured, and I see Kei and Mineo’s dejected faces. They want to help, but in this situation, it’s useless.

I quickly assess the coffin after I’m inside. I’m on the second level, and in the safety of our glass display case of death, the girls underneath me begin to scream, pounding on the glass. It seems they’ve realized what this tank is for, too. Everything outside is muffled through the dual layers of glass.

**Do you know these women?**

**These women have lived in half-truths.**

**They live half-lives.**

**Tonight, we shall show you liberation.**

**True liberty begins with yourself.**

**Tonight, we shall see who drowns first:**

**these helpless girls...**

**or their demons.**

**Life separates us, but we are united in death.**

Water glugs out of the hoses, and I quickly use it to slick my hair out of my face. On this level, at this height, I can see the powerless faces of the people below us. They’d witnessed the massacre of their friends or lovers, but this is different. Those deaths were painless, but now, they have front row seats, and get to watch the life leave our bodies, one at a time. I would take a bullet between the eyes or a knife to the throat over drowning any day.

I hardly have room to turn around, and my right hand aches. I flex my fingers and hold my tongue, about to cry out. I think two of my fingers are fractured, but I still have my other hand. It's already raucous inside the tank, and the glass is fogged with all the screaming.

Under me, the water is up to their knees. A woman under me, the oldest one, her coffin is just to the right of mine. Another girl, who had been quietly crying, is to my left.

“Hey! You, Curly!” I bark down at her. She’s too busy screaming so I jump on the rungs. They’re made of steel or some other metal and won’t bend, but I just want to get her attention. “ _HEY_!”

Finally, she looks up at me, silent and sniffling, blinking away the water that runs down my legs.

“And you! Hey! Hey, _crybaby_!” I stomp on the rungs again, and she looks up, practically bare faced from all the water and tears. “What are your names?” I soften my tone, looking down at them.

“Why does it matter?” sobs Crybaby.

“Fucking hell, do you want to get out of here or what?” I ask, pissed off. I now have the other two’s attention. The water sloshes against the girls on the bottom’s thighs. From here on, it’ll just get harder.

“Why should we trust you?” It’s the girl next to me, and though she’s not instrumental to the plan, I answer her anyways.

I knock my own head against the glass in frustration. “Because I’m in this fucking snow globe with you, too, _dumbass_.” I hadn’t meant for it to come out so harsh, but once tier one gets full, this would be impossible to escape.

“There is a knife in each of my heels,” I spurt out. “They’re carbide knives. They can break the glass.” Their eyes light up. “I can’t reach them, but if I kick the glass they should…” I swing my leg back as far as possible in the cramped space, and sure enough, the handle of one knife pops out from the hollow chunk of my heel.

“So what do we do?” asks Curly.

“You have to catch it,” I order. “If you don’t catch it, we lose.” There’s not enough space to bend forward and pick something up once we’ve dropped it. I speak faster. “Turn the knives sideways, and you have to use all of your strength, and stab as hard as you can. _Got it_?”

Curly and Crybaby nod anxiously. Crybaby already has her head tilted back, and I see her legs move to tread water. But she can’t, not with this little space. She has two coffins feeding her water, and to top it off, she’s no taller than me.

I give Curly her knife first, and she picks at the glass, grunting as the knife clinks uselessly. Crybaby squeezes herself up along the walls of her case, face tilted up to the rungs beneath my feet. She hardly has room to breathe now.

She can’t break the glass. Not like this.

I lift my right leg up, straining to fit it against the wall. Curly lets out a celebratory cry below me but it’s drowned out by the water collecting in her box. There’s a run in the glass, and if there were more water, the pressure might be enough to save us, but I can’t wait that long. Crybaby has another two minutes to live, at most.

I stretch my arm under me, my right arm, broken fingers stretching to release the rest of my knife. I clench my teeth to hold back from screaming as I feel pain zip from my fingertips and up my arm, until finally, I close my three good fingers around the hand and pull the knife from my heel. With two hands, I begin my charge.

“Hhhhhuah!” I let loose and concentrate my force on the split in the glass. It’s right in front of me and I let out another yell as I jab at the glass again. Curly is silent below me, and I feel water seep into the bottoms of my boots.

Over and over, I slam the knife into the glass, yelling with each thrust. The woman next to me is pressed up against the window between us, her hands clasped in prayer, eyes glued to me.

But it’s no use. My grip is too feeble with my swollen fingers.

I can’t save them, or even myself.

With one final heave, I drop the knife, and I see my neighbors jaw drop.

Just before the blade drops in between the rungs, I slam one foot down, sandwiching it between my boots. Sidling up the side of the glass, I reach up with one last push of my strength, seizing the rungs above me.

I scream, a blood curling scream, feeling the weight of my body drag down on my beaten fingers. Regardless of the pain, I tighten my grip.

I swing my legs, and kick with all of my might.

* * *

“Suzy, are your bags packed?”

Daddy calls into the barren house, his voice a colorful singsong against the plain walls. He waits patiently in the doorway as a little girl shuffles out with a small backpack, dragging along a duffel bag that, if upright, would stand as tall as her. “Yes, Daddy,” she huffs, plopping down on the ground.

“We have to go meet the plane now,” he says, picking her up with one arm, and grabbing her duffel. “Did you say goodbye to all the rooms?”

She nods, clutching on to him as he carries her and her last bag over to the car. “Yes! And I kissed all of Mommy’s little trees _sayonara,_ too!”

His mouth hardens at the mention of her mother.

“Will Mommy see us at the airport?” she asks, beaming.

“Mommy…” he sighs, unsure of how to phrase it to a five-year-old girl that her mother can’t see her any more. Rather, Ennosuke _refuses_ to let Tsuki’s mother have any contact with her.

Tsuki buckles her seatbelt, and he can see her round-cheeked, expectant smile when he adjusts the rearview mirror.

“Suzy, your mommy isn’t coming with us. She’s not going to be able to say goodbye to us either, but it’s going to be good for us. I promise,” he swears truthfully. He feels an ache in his throat as the talkative child goes silent, her usually bright face unreadable.

“Can I take one of her little trees with us, then?”

Ennosuke shakes his head sadly. “I’m sorry, dear, but you can’t bring little trees on an airplane.” He starts the engine, driving away from the house before she can ask more questions.

“Oh.”

“I promise, Tsu, New York City is going to be great. There are lots of people like us there, too, and you’ll make lots of friends because you’re so _cute_ ! _And_ , there’s _snow_ in the winter.”

“Snow! You’re _kidding_!”

“I’m not kidding! You’ll just have to see it for yourself.”

Tsuki smiles, wriggling in her car seat, dreaming of snow angels and snow days and snow ball fights with her Dad and Mom.

Mommy had made a promise, and she’s never, ever broken one.

  
  



	6. cherry pie

Takeru always notices the woman who comes by the school on the second Friday of every month.

From the careful curve of her mouth, and her tall stature for a Japanese woman, it’s hard to tell that she’s Tsuki’s mother. But Takeru knew once he saw her eyes, an Adriatic blue, and coquettish in shape, that the two women were related.

After Tsuki’s father is arrested, the woman stops visiting.

And something changes in Tsuki, too. Her academic fervor heightens, and she’s started working hard in sports. She’s not well-off, like him, but her grades are more than supplementary for getting into a good school. Though she’s two years his junior, she’s on track to graduate with him.

He walks with her to and from school, now that she lives a few blocks down, and there’s something strange about her. She’s more outgoing, has more friends…

He thinks he’s going to lose her.

“I’m going to study abroad senior year,” she says, out of the blue. “Huh? Takeru?”

Takeru only realizes that he’s stopped walking when she turns around a few paces ahead of him, the spring sunbeams filtering through her candy-pink hair. “Sorry, you’re gonna _what_?” he asks her again, this time to her face.

Her cheerful expression shatters when she sees the disbelief that pulls his brows skywards. The steadiness of her voice is gone when she says, again, “I’m gonna study abroad next year?”

There's a pregnant pause before Takeru laughs cruelly, masking his hurt. “With what money?” he teases, and anger blooms over her face when she realizes that his voice is addled with ridicule. “You go to private school, but you’re still an honor student,” he prods mockingly, catching up to her in a few strides. “Even _I_ haven’t studied abroad, so it’s kind of hard to believe that you’re, what, going to _Europe_ or something in a year? Bitch, please.”

“You’re a fucking jerk, Takeru.”

“Come _on_ , Tsuki, you might have been a gifted kid or whatever-the-fuck, but you _still_ ask me for help in calculus! What makes you think you'd survive a day outside of Manhattan without me?" The smile that he flashes her is anything but encouraging, and anger builds up in her face until the sound of her molars grinding on one another rattles in her head.

"Why does everything have to be about you?" she rolls her eyes disdainfully, her best friend's grating ego finally wearing into her skin. "You're always telling me to grow up. And since I'm definitely not getting any taller, why shouldn't I go abroad?" Her footfalls are heavy, like the footfalls of a child about to throw a tempter tanrum. "And if I remember correctly, _you_ latched on to me," Tsuki quips. Though her memories of their first meeting are nostalgic and bright, poison begins to taint the edges of those vignettes. That same poison taints her next words. "You're the one who came to the garden every day. Maybe you were just looking for the perfect person to pick on." 

A haughty snort from Takeru. "Growing up? _Good one._ You’re better off paying attention in Home Ec and learning how to actually cook--”

She grabs him, again with that strength of hers, and strikes him hard across the face with her palm.

“Tsuki--”

“Shut _up_ , Takeru! Just _shut up_ and be _happy for me for once_ !” She’s breathing hard, her shoulders heaving. When she raises her head, Takeru sees tears, hot and angry, building in the wells of her eyes. “The first good thing that’s happened to me since I’ve moved to this _shithole of a city_ , and you just _have_ to fucking shoot me down!”

“Maybe you do need to do some growing up.” He flexes his jaw from the sting of her slap, eyes incredulous. He could get mad here, but would it be smart to do that? Was now really the time to be thinking about what he should have said instead of that out of pocket, debasing comment? How can he fix this? "I'm-"

She steps back, cradling her red hand. She, too, is surprised at her reaction. Before either can form an apology on their lips, she cuts him off. “No, Takeru! You don’t get to be a dick and make me cry and just try to fucking, Idunno, _hug it out_ or some shit! I’m so tired of going through this with you every day for the last… Jesus Christ, almost a _decade_ . And never _once_ have you said ‘good job, Tsuki’, or ‘nice work, Tsuki’, or ‘thank you, Tsuki, for staying up _every night_ this past week working on that project and making flashcards for me’! You think that 'taking care of me' is just walking me home after school... Well, I'd rather walk alone if it means I don't have to deal with you any more!”

“Shit, have you ever talked this much? Or this _loudly?_ Calm down, we’re still in residential,” Takeru replies. He tries to lead her by the arm, pointing towards their donut shop. “Let’s stop for something sweet ‘til you calm down...”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” She wrenches herself out of his grasp, storming off towards her aunt’s place, and Takeru runs in front of her, desperately blocking her path.

“It’s always, ‘idiot’ this, ‘moron’ that. _Baka, baka, baka_.” She pounds on his chest with her fists, hard and then softer, until finally, she collapses into his arms, and Takeru holds her so tight that her tears soak through his uniform shirt. “I just want--” Tsuki chokes up, and Takeru runs a hand through her hair, the hair that he likes to tug when she ties it up, the hair that grows out of her brilliant little head.

 _What did she want?_ He doesn't know yet that this question will follow him across the world, nearly seven years later. _Is it something I could have given you?_

“Shh,” he croons. “And stop crying. You look ugly.”

Before Tsuki can go off on another tangent, Takeru pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket. His dad always said to keep one handy, especially around girls, and Takeru had always assumed it was for their periods…

When he wipes at the tears on Tsuki’s face, he now knows why he should keep one handy.

“Thanks,” she mutters once her face is dry.

Takeru hands her the handkerchief, gesturing for her to blow her nose. “Don’t get used to it.”

He takes her hand, tugging her towards the donut shop, but her feet are lead.

“What now?” Takeru sighs, expecting to see Tsuki crying again.

Instead, she looks bashful, and normal. “Can we get something else instead?”

Takeru feels a flush come to his face when she takes his hand, locking their fingers innocently. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve told you before, already. I like cherry pie.”

“Fine,” Takeru caves, letting her take the lead. “But _only_ because I made you cry. That's all.”

* * *

“I don’t need to watch that garbage. _I was fucking there_ ,” spits Takeru. In front of him is a box of donuts, empty, and he glares at it, arms crossed in impatience. His computer is out in front of him, and he’s been combing through the files Kei got from her home computer and laptop. “When can I-- _we_ , see her?”

“Miss Hanamura is under surveillance in her home while she recovers, Mister Sasazuka.” Bateman, too, has his arms crossed, thankful that the pernickety young man in front of him will be going home as soon as the threat in San Francisco is snuffed out. “It is _critical_ that you cooperate, so we can catch the people responsible for the Eventide Incident.”

However, it’s not like that it will be any time soon. Especially not with that attitude.

 _“What did he say?”_ Aiji, armed with two pistols in his preferred body holsters, has a furrowed brow.

 _“This protozoan meathead wants the video analyzed.”_ Takeru’s translations are accurate, give or take some insults for flavor.

“ _And?”_ Aiji has his work cut out for him as a detective: he reads the expressions on Takeru’s face like the Sunday news.

“Nancy is critical in this investigation,” Takeru states, feeling his emotions hit boiling point. “We obviously need to speak with her imm--”

Bateman clears his throat, narrowing his eyes. “Yes, Mister Sasazuka. _We_ will speak with her immediately.”

“Tch. By _speak_ , you mean _interrogate_.”

“We only caught one person, an underling, after the raid on the club,” Bateman states clearly. “And just like you said, their memory was erased soon after we began asking questions. The only leads we have to go on are over 50 bodies in the morgue, three young women with permanent brain damage, the testimony of drunk _kids_ , and another woman in critical condition!” The investigation team seems jarred by the rise in Bateman’s tone.

He clears his throat. “There is much more at stake here than the life of Nancy Hanamura.”

There it is. That name again. Takeru pinches the bridge of his nose.

“ _Excuse me, Sasazuka-san,_ ” comes Kageyuki’s even voice. “ _I can tell that you’re mad, but would you mind telling us what he said?_ ”

“ _He’s just spitting dust out of his mouth. Doesn’t matter._ ” And then, to Bateman, “Just… turn on the video. You're wasting my time.”

After going through each stream, Bateman purses his lips, eyes narrowed as he rewinds the clip. After hearing it replayed so many times, Takeru knows where he fucked up.

“ _Tsuki_ … _”_ murmurs the task force director. “Is that a person?”

* * *

I pace in the living room, scowling at my hand. “Two to eight weeks,” I curse. “What kind of _fucking_ estimate is that?”

I’d broken character so many times since Takeru showed up, and with the newfound, and frustrating, privacy I now have, it feels nice to let loose.

“That god damn, mint chip-headed mother _fucker_ ,” I callously swig from the bottle in my good hand. I’ve been saving some top-shelf for a good day, and while today is anything but that, I don’t know when I’ll get another chance.

My gun stares at me from the kitchen counter, sitting on top of government-issued IDs. For the last week, they’ve been sitting there, just like the security detail outside of my apartment building.

I could leave. My cover is completely thrown under the bus. Despite my best efforts, I’m now suspect in this entire investigation. Those questions, coupled with Takeru’s _idiotic_ yelling… I’m sure Bateman has a guy in the brass that can ask questions about me.

I’d be burned as an agent. My whole identity has been compromised, and not only is my operation at stake, but my life, too. _They_ know who I am.

20 Questions my ass. It only took, what, six or seven questions before Judas got what they wanted? Takeru may as well have handed my personnel file to them on a platter.

I trudge to the window, pushing aside the curtains and dragging down the blinds. There’s been another guard switch, 30 minutes later than the one from this time yesterday.

I jot it down, my left-handed chicken scratch barely legible compared to my normal penmanship. Never the same time, which means, yes, I’m safe here, but it also means I can’t leave. And that’s what I want now, more than anything.

I rummage through the ottoman in my bedroom, picking out the burner phone I’d been assigned. The number for my handler is imprinted in my mind any time I get into a rough spot, and my fingers twitch, eager to dial them in.

Bimbo starts barking at the door, and I cram the phone into the pocket of my pajamas, sprinting into the kitchen despite my still sore muscles, tucking my gun into the back of my waistband.

I was told I’d be informed before receiving company.

I steady my left hand behind my back, bracing myself against a wall. “Who is it?” I call out, as Nancy. Her voice is higher in tone than my typical timbre. If I ever forgot to speak up high, most people would just assume I was sick.

“I brought pie.”

“Sasazuka-san,” I greet, rolling my eyes. I’m still Nancy. I relax my shoulders and begin to bundle my documents into my good hand. It's no good if these are out. “You can just leave it at the door, thank you. I appreciate you coming b-”

“ _It’s cherry._ ”

“Even better,” I say through the door. “I’m still not feeling well, so you can just leave it there and I’ll come get it once you’re gone.” I grit with mock benign.

“You open the door and get pie, or you keep it closed and I eat it all by myself... right in front of the peephole.”

“...”

“You’re free to watch, of course.”

I throw open the door as soon as I stow my things away and the deadbolts are lifted. Takeru strides in nonchalantly, carrying a box and backpack. He leaves his shoes in the doorway.

“Plates?” he asks, looking around the kitchen. His eyes linger far too long on me: not on the bandages that spiral up my arms from broken glass, but directly at my face.

I tell him they're in the top cabinet nearest the sink, and he meticulously cuts two slices of cherry pie, setting them down in the living room where I'm seated. The smell of fresh pie crust is so tempting that I immediately dig in, aware of the gaze that assesses me.

Seeing that I'm nearly finished with my generous serving, Takeru tilts his head, arms crossed, pie untouched. He unzips the backpack next to him and removes his compact computer, entering a string of different passcodes before finally, turning it to face me. " _Nancy_. I want you to think long and hard about the answer to my question."

I cock an eyebrow, pulling the computer closer to me, craning my neck. I pause for a moment, stunned as I see a familiar file taking up the majority of the screen.

It's hard to swallow the lump in my throat, but I do it anyway. "Your question?"

Takeru studies me, leaning back in his seat with my dog sitting in his lap. "Do you think you look like her? Because I think that you resemble her greatly," he clears his throat, forcing me to meet his hardened, alien glare. "And I'm _never_ wrong."


	7. spot the difference

Takeru’s mother sighs into her hand, looking at her son with sweet eyes. He’s in the dining room, hunched over the table, meticulously outlining a large sheet of poster paper.

“It’s nearly midnight, honey,” she says over the hum of piano music. On the television in the living room is a video showing the interior of Carnegie Hall. A video she, herself, took. “You’re not in front of a screen? Are you ill?”

“You were the one who told me I had to show effort to fix things,” he mutters, reaching for a donut. His lean figure reclines against the edge of the table, watching the screen across the house. “I already finished my homework.”

In actuality, he had paid off Ben Lowe to do his homework earlier that week. But his mother didn’t need to know.

Her voice is soft and gentle, dark eyes hovering over what looks to be an art project, minus the art. She traces one of the letters on the sign with the tip of her finger. “She’s really good, isn’t she? Too bad you missed that performance. And the one before that.” 

Takeru nods, licking the glaze from his fingers. He’d actually never heard Tsuki play the piano. At least, not since the elementary talent show where she flubbed up some Russian piece whose name he forgot. Sometimes he walked her to her lessons after school. When Tsuki offered him a ticket to her first recital years ago, he gave it to his mother, who’s attended any performance of her’s ever since. After a few years, Tsuki just started giving them directly to his mom.

They’d grown distant in the last few months of junior year, and with her extra load of college courses, Takeru had less and less time to see Tsuki Saito. She even left campus early on some days, leaving him to walk home by himself.

The distance he could deal with. They’d still text in between classes, and they shared a homeroom.

But he’d even fucked that up.

_ “You looked up my  _ dad _? _ ”

_ “Don’t you think it’s just  _ weird _ how he disappeared without a trace? Like what if he just, I don’t know, eloped in Vegas and left you behind?” _

_ “He didn’t disappear!” _

_ “He certainly isn’t around  _ you _ any more, that’s for sure.” _

_ “Don’t you have  _ any _ sense of privacy? Just because you  _ can _ do something, doesn’t mean you fucking should.” _

_ “Where are you going?” _

_ “Hack my fucking phone and find out, since you’re so curious about my business.” _

“She’s okay,” he mumbles, turning back to his task.

“I  _ did _ say you should show more effort as a friend but… this might be  _ too _ much,” observes his mom behind him with a snicker. “ _ Especially _ from you.”

The next day, Tsuki is surprised at her final concert by a bouquet of flowers, presented to her alongside a large poster with the words “YOU’RE OKAY AT PIANO, LET’S SEE HOW YOU DANCE” written in neat paint.

“Dance?” she asks. Takeru’s ego swells at seeing her so flustered; clearly she hadn’t expected him there. He also feels his chest pumping, heart stirring, at her bright eyes, teary and sweet. Of course, she knows what he means to ask, and she’s simply playing dumb, but he figures there is no harm in obliging her.

“Yeah. I’m taking you to prom,” he affirms the question she doesn’t have the heart to voice, in case she’s wrong.

In that moment, something unexpected happens. He’d planned on asking her, and of course, she’d say yes, but...

He brushes aside the flowers that she clutches to her chest, baby-blue hydrangeas (for the eyes he’s missed) flanked by pink roses (her hair that he can’t get enough of), and dabs at one of the tears on her awe-struck face before it can fall. In the moment when their eyes meet in the crowded lounge, he feels it: an ache to be closer to her, to protect her.

Isn’t that why he tried to find her father? To give her closure, and answers to all the questions she was too afraid to ask?

In this moment, he wants more though. Not just to  _ be  _ with her, but to savor her.

Takeru closes his eyes and tilts her head up, tender and passionate as he expresses to her how much he cares with his lips. She’s not the first girl he’s kissed, and he knows he’s not her first, either, but he’s surprised at how  _ right _ it feels.

Tsuki stares at him blankly when he breaks away, clearly stunned. Despite the embarrassment that’s punctured her pretty face, she still looks lovely. Is she mad? Would she turn him away?

“I don’t care if someone’s already asked you,” Takeru murmurs, leaning in so his breath is on her ear. He tucks a strand of candy-pink hair behind her head. “This sign took forever to make and my mom will laugh her ass into an early grave if you turn me down.”

At that comment, Takeru is rewarded with a smile that rivals the beautiful music he’d just heard. “I guess I have to tell Ben that I have a new date then…” she blushes.

“You’re gonna have to tell him on Tuesday, then,” Takeru smirks. He boldly places a hand around her waist, drawing her against his chest, relishing in the erratic beat of her heart against his. “I asked him to do my IB Psych report.”

One of the first things I was taught during my ‘study abroad’ was how to remain calm during any interrogation scenario. Not every escape can be foolproof, and in the case that you fall into enemy hands, you must be prepared to experience anything, from pain, to threats, honeypotting…

Nobody had ever told me what to do in a situation like this!

Takeru’s hard eyes press into me, and despite my unfaltering demeanour, I know that no matter what I say, I’m still under suspicion.

“I guess our faces  _ do _ look very similar,” I admit. There’s simply no denying that fact. “But I’m confused as to why you’re showing me this, Sasazuka.” I look over the computer again, pursing my lips in thought. Bimbo must sense my unease, because she plops next to me. “Does this have to do with Judas? I’m not a suspect, am I?”

He sighs, clearly vexed by my lack of reaction, and snatches the laptop away from me with a scowl. “What do you think,  _ Nancy _ ?” he says my name like it’s a disease, shutting the lid of his computer before stowing it away. “And don’t sound so formal. It’s bizarre.”

“So… Takeru?”

He doesn’t answer, and instead looks at my coffee table. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to drink on these?”

A pale finger gestures to the prescription painkillers and the opened bottle of Grey Goose. “It’s just a suggestion,” I reply, snatching the bottle away, as well as the notes I’d been taking on the guard switches, ignoring his narrowed gaze. I place the pills on my nightstand and flip the notepad face down into a drawer. “Did you get what you came here for?”

My voice trails off as I turn to see him in the doorway of my bedroom.

“Is that…”

I trudge over to him, placing a hand on his chest and backing him out of my room when I see where his eyes have fallen.

The bonsai in the corner of the room could have withered under his stare.

“I think you’ve stayed for far too long,” I caution hurriedly, leading him to the door by the wrist. “There’s a strict curfew now and--”

I’m seized by my shoulders and I yelp, not from surprise, but from the pain that branches up from underneath the bandages that cover my arms. “You’ve finally  _ grown up _ , huh?” breathes a husky, angry Takeru. “How long were you planning of making me look stupid?”

Can I keep playing dumb here?

I feel panic settling in as his grip digs into my arms, pain and adrenaline contorting my face. “T-Takeru,” I sputter, eyes clenched tightly. “You’re hurting me.”

“You almost got away with it, too, except for the fact that I’m not as much of a moron as you seemed to bet on me being,” he spits, shoving me hard onto the sofa. “ _ Tsuki _ .”

My own name is like a stone skipped over a pond, sending ripples in every direction. How long had it been since I’d heard it? I’d repeated it, over and over in my mind sometimes, grasping for my own identity.

“Takeru, my--”

It’s too late. When he pincers me between the cushions and himself, I feel a surge of pain course up through my chest, and when Takeru removes his hand from where he had pinned me, it comes up red.

I’m not a doctor, but I think he’s ripped my stitches.

“Fuck,” he gasps, bumbling backwards, eyes glazed over his hand. “Shit,  _ shit _ ,” I hear him whimper, and he wipes at his shirt. There’s panic that’s ruptured his aggression, concern painted over his eyes, and I know where I’ve seen this before.

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” I console, pressing a hand to the reopened wound, urging the blood to stop with gentle pressure. “Wash your hands, and grab the first aid kit in the bathroom. Please,” I add, feeling the stretch of skin under my hands.

His hand, still splayed out, shakes with the memory of his mother.

“You’re very good at this.”

“Practice.”

I pull at the last seam and my skin tightens into a neat, red line. Finally, I lean back on the sofa. Takeru had also grabbed towels to cover the upholstery, but there are still spatters and smears where I had carelessly dripped onto the slate blue fabric.

“Awful good at patching up flesh wounds for a  _ museum curator _ , aren’t we?” He’s back to normal, it seems.

I let out a sigh and tape a new bandage on to my chest, buttoning up my shirt. “We’re past this, right?” I ask coolly, reaching with my good hand to sip my drink. “Otherwise, you might rip up the other stitches. Buy me a new first aid kit, rich boy.”

“Ha! You seem well off now, buy it yourself.” A hand shoots out to cover my drink, and in my hesitation, he slides it away, perspiration from the glass leaving a wet mark on the table. “ _ And _ that was a twenty dollar pie. I accept cash, I know you’ve got some lying around here.”

He’d been quiet, watching me work with one hand to close up the laceration on my chest, respectfully (or angrily) looking down at the floor so as not to see my underwear. Or perhaps the blood. But after I’d sealed off my wound with the bandage, Takeru had become significantly more chatty.

Our banter was not so different than it had been when I’d last seen him.

“Your IQ must have dropped a few points,” he mutters as I neatly set aside the first aid supplies. “I thought you were smart enough to not abuse drugs like some Long Island wench.”

I don’t reply, choosing instead to stand up and stow the kit in the bathroom. Bimbo yips happily as I free her from the ensuite, where Takeru had placed her earlier. Upon seeing Takeru lounging on the still-stained sofa, she growls.

“Hey,  _ Bimbo _ , I didn’t hurt your god-damned own--  _ Hey! _ ”

When I come back outside, Bimbo is snarling atop Takeru, who lies defensively on his back with grit teeth.

“Bimbo, down,” I snap. She immediately whines, but comes to my waiting hand when I crouch, stiffly, at the edge of the sofa. “Good girl.”

Takeru watches as I pet her, face bitter. “Animals usually like me,” he mopes sordidly.

“It’s because you hurt me.” I avoid his eyes, setting mine on the pup’s snout instead.

“Does she know that you hurt me, too?”

My hair falls out of the bun I’d placed it in when I shake my head. My voice creaks, and I let my eyes soften, still gazing sadly into Bimbo’s eager face. “There are some things I don’t have to tell everyone, Takeru.”

He scoffs, indifferent to my melancholy. “You say that like I’m part of  _ everyone _ .”

“Especially you.”

His hurt is palpable, pungent. “This isn’t some game, Tsuki,” he says, taking a sip of my drink and grimacing. “Jesus, that tasted like toilet bleach,” he sputters, then continues, “So tell me exactly where in the hell you’ve been for the last three years, because it’s 11 o’clock and I have  _ nowhere else to go _ .” A perverted grin spreads across his fair features, and he’s right: the new curfew prevents all citizens, save for police and national guard, to be out after then.

Fucking smart ass.

I let out a long sigh, and curl my fingers, beckoning for the rest of my drink. Knowing that I won’t talk until the liquor loosens my lips, he places it, hesitantly, in my waiting hands.

Once it’s down the hatch, I’m startled by surprisingly strong hands pulling me up against his chest, legs swept up bridal-style. “Let’s roleplay like when we were younger,” he huffs, effortlessly carrying me to my bedroom, ignoring my dog’s whines. “You’re my babysitter, and I want a bedtime story.”

“That’s not sexy at  _ all _ . Pervert.”

“Shut up. Unless it’s a bedtime story.”

I’m set on the bed, and he tucks me in, careful of the stitches that he sees protruding under the collar of my shirt.

Before I can say anything, he locks himself in the bathroom, and re-emerges in comfortable homewear that he must have packed in his bags. Just like the boy I knew, he must have expected this from the very start. Sliding in next to me, I feel heat rush to my cheeks when he takes up the side of my bed that had been long-empty, pale fingers turning my head to face him as his says in a voice both soft and stern:

“To me, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. It never will. All that matters now is that you don’t do it again.”

It turns out that the liquor wouldn’t be what eased my anxiety.

In reality, it was the brief, passion-fueled kiss that he plants on my lips. Despite me grappling on to him, my mouth parted in eagerness and fingers twisted in his messy hair, he gently brushes me off, clicking his tongue with a smirk.

“Nuh uh uh,” he whispers, despite the apparent lust in his blown pupils. A finger brushes over my bottom lip before he sets a comfortable distance between us. With hushed grandiose, he says, “I’ve been having insufferable nightmares the last few years. And the only thing I want tonight is a bedtime story so I can finally get some sleep.”

He props himself up on one arm, looking at me with a soft intensity. Takeru’s eyes, cherry red and hyper-critical, glowed dimly. They tend to intimidate people, but never me.

“I’d start at the beginning, but you were already there,” I begin. “So I’ll start in the middle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! i've been so busy lately, but i'm so overjoyed to know that you guys are enjoying double negative! i'm going to be updating more regularly now ^_^! it's been a minute since i've written and sat with these characters, so please bear with me while i get back into the swing of things. <3
> 
> next chapter is going to lowkey be filler for tsuki's past, and i'm also working on the smut fic that will go parallel to this one. stay tuned and thank you guys again!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for the hits <3 please leave kudos and a comment so i can improve my writing!


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